Oh, Divinity
by SeriousSubwayFlirting
Summary: Just a special little moment between Mr and Mrs DeWitt. Contains spoilers, so if you haven't finished - well, what are you doing reading fanfiction? Go play the game, you silly goose!


In a dark alley behind a rowdy speak easy, Booker's knees hit the sleet-covered ground just as the last flicker of light – the last flicker of hope – disappeared before his eyes. His first slammed against brick, and he called her name, _their_ name, as if it would make any measure of difference. Passers by on the main street cast confused looks at this strange, broken man, barking at the wall, but he was oblivious. He felt nothing then but the choke of desperation. He held his head in his hands, and sweet memories became tainted by the current bitterness.

**xxx**

'Damn it all to hell,' thought Booker, gathering what remained of his cards in a stack and tapping them on the table. His smug opponent dragged dirty, nail-bitten hands over the crumpled pile of notes and coins between them and Booker inhaled sharply.

"Well played, sir," he offered with a terse, uneasy smile. He didn't wait for a reply lest he find himself goaded into playing another round, but rather just stood abruptly and headed for the door. He stumbled out to the street and the cold New York night kissed his cheeks. He breathed in fresh, crisp air, but his nose crinkled at the unpleasant, tangy undertone of filthy gutters. His swagger was exaggerated by the comforting hush of whiskey and he let his arms swing by his sides in merry abandon. Intoxicated bravado suffocated the guilt he felt at losing the income that had justified leaving Anna alone for five weeks. He had only meant to partake in a quick nightcap before heading home to her, and that had turned into just one quick game of poker. And it only took one bad hand, and then the spoils of weeks of sweaty, bloody work circled the drain and was gone before he'd even had a chance to let that beautiful, long-suffering woman know he had arrived back in town.

He wove through the streets, giving jovial salutes to any who looked too long upon his drunken amble. He came upon the stoop of the brownstone town house he called home, and fumbled through his pockets for his keys. He slammed the door more loudly than expected, and hoped he wouldn't have the slightly-cracked red-headed housewife upstairs on his tail for waking her baby. A quick jaunt down the hall and he arrived at the door to his apartment. Another clumsy grapple with his keys and he opened the door. So drunk was he that he forgot to let go of the knob and went skittering across the floor. There was Anna, standing in bloomers and her corset, chestnut hair bundled up in rags and pins to give it a bouncy curl come morning, ironing shirts and trousers and socks. Not exactly an elegant ensemble, but in his eyes her beauty was never anything short of devastating. He took her by surprise, not having let her know in advance to expect him home tonight. She squealed and hugged one of his white, cotton shirts to her chest to protect her modesty, as if he did not already know many, far more intimate details about her body than were currently on display. He placed a hand on his chest, and hummed, turning back and forth as he worked his way towards her, the heavy amounts of whiskey he had consumed making for a jolly dance partner. He scooped her off her feet and kissed her.

"Anna," he said, with satisfaction, eros twinkling in his eye.

"Booker," she responded, a smitten smile replacing any bashfulness regarding her state of dress.

"To what end are you ironing by lamp light, my love?" he questioned, placing her back on her feet.

Embarrassment sullied her gentle features again, and she gave Booker a knowing look. "It's been four weeks since we last paid rent, Booker. I've taken to doing all the housework at night so I can be quiet as a mouse during the day, lest our dear landlord Mr. Alcott come sweeping through demanding payment." Anna pressed a gentle hand against Booker's stubbled face, then smiled brightly. "Oh, but you're back now. Did you get paid?"

Booker made a face. He did not want to tell her that they would not be handing any money over to Mr. Alcott any time soon. Anna paid no attention to his hesitation.

"Oh, divinity," she gushed, suddenly quite excited. "We're out of everything, Booker. Kerosene, flour, this is the last of the firewood. My soles are worn through and I've been cutting holes in my petticoats just to patch your shirts and – oh, Booker, you _did _get paid, didn't you?" she asked, her eyebrow raising slightly as she finally noticed the sour look Booker's face wore.

Booker couldn't stand to tell her that he'd lost his long-awaited pay cheque in a lousy game of poker only a few hours after he'd first slipped it in his pocket. He decided to keep up the charade and save the bad news until tomorrow.

"I most surely did. We're fairly well-heeled tonight, Mrs. DeWitt," he said, grinning at her.

"Oh, bless you. I'm happy to see you as well, but...It's just...If I have to serve my husband porridge made from stale, weevil-ridden oats for supper one more time, I swear, I would feel the most wretched wife in the world," she explained, giving Booker a pathetic pout that made his grin grow larger.

He felt it best to change the subject before she had chance to ask any more questions, so he wandered over to their worn phonograph and turned the crank.

"Listen, Anna," he said, as he lifted the phonograph's arm with a gentle finger and placed the needle in a familiar place. "They're playing our song."

The dulcet but crackled lilt of Chopin floated from the tarnished brass horn and he came back over, pulling a commanding arm around her waist and taking her hand. The two waltzed a circle around the room, and Booker didn't break her gaze for a second. Soon, she forgot all about weevils and Mr. Alcott and kerosene and pay cheques. Booker kissed her and his hands found their way to her back to release her from her corset. He had worked only half way through the bindings before losing patience, and chose instead to simply sweep an arm behind her knees to pick her up and carry her into their bedroom, throwing her down on the bed and climbing atop her as she cooed his name. His mind was clouded by lust but he found whiskey to be quite the fair weather friend and could not muster the vigour to carry through. The room was dark, and he suddenly felt exhausted by all the excitement, so he simply rolled off her, and no sooner had she sidled up to him, to press her sweet face against his nape and slide an arm around his middle, had he fallen asleep.

He woke hours later, and felt temporarily disoriented to be back in his own bed after so many weeks. He peered into the darkness, then listened for the sounds of the street and concluded it was close to but not quite dawn. Anna's arms were still tangled about him and he moved carefully so he could lay on his back. She shifted in her sleep, to cling closer to him and he pulled a gentle hand through her hair. He was sober, now, and distress set in over the state of their finances. His gambling was a problem, and he knew it. At least, he knew it, right now, laying next to Anna. He just never seemed to know it when he was sitting at a poker table. He let out a heavy sigh and Anna stirred, looking up at him through sleepy eyes.

"Hello, love," he said, as quietly as he could and she smiled.

"I'm so glad you're home, Booker," she said, placing her head once again on his chest.

"Anna..." he said, then stopped. He found there to be an uncomfortable tightness in his throat, that made it difficult to continue. "I lost the money."

"I know," she said, simply. She worked hard to conceal the sadness in her voice but wasn't quite successful and Booker hated himself for a moment. She moved her hand so her palm rested along his jawline in a way he found reassuring.

"You're not angry?"

"Maybe you didn't bring the money home, but you brought yourself. That's enough," she said, and he didn't think it was possible to love anything or anyone more than he loved her right then.

He pulled her with strong arms up onto his chest and kissed her, a hand cupping the back of head, her hair tangled in his fingers. He kissed her as passionately as he knew how, then moved so he was on top of her. He repeated, again and again, that he loved her, and she could only say it back. He felt a frantic need to be as close to her as possible, and it wasn't long before he found his way inside and two moved together in glorious, synchronous rapture. The sun arrived just as Booker did, and though he didn't know it then, that moment was the one that started everything.

**xxx**

"I'm sorry, Anna. I'm so, so sorry," he muttered, still not quite sure if he was talking to his late wife or his vanished daughter. Booker's mind could not conceive of such a world where what he just witnessed was possible, so he let the confusion sink to the bottom for now and grief and anger take over. He shook his head and made a useless, empty bite. He opened his eyes and looked down at the ground and saw it – that tiny severed finger, the only thing he had left of both daughter and wife. He picked it up and it was dwarfed in his hands. He held it to his lips. It was cold and wet with the same sleet that stained the knees of his trousers, but he kissed it and hot, pathetic tears welled in his eyes.

"Anna. Anna, please. I'm sorry."


End file.
